


Ruthenium (Ru)

by annunziatina



Series: "Nobel" Metals (A Noah x Isobel Coda Series) [3]
Category: Roswell New Mexico (TV 2019)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Hand Feeding, Kneeling, Light Dom/sub
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-13
Updated: 2019-03-13
Packaged: 2019-11-17 12:44:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18098762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annunziatina/pseuds/annunziatina
Summary: (Takes during Episode 103: Tearin' Up My Heart)Noah thrums with anticipation as he prepares a dinner scene for Isobel the night before the Drive-In Movie Fundraiser for the VA.  We all know that, due to Max’s ‘girl troubles’, she doesn’t show.This one-shot can be read on its own.  Or it can be read as Chapter 3 of the series.





	Ruthenium (Ru)

**Author's Note:**

> Ruthenium (Ru)  
> noun  
> Silver-gray in color, Ruthenium metal looks like platinum but is rarer, harder, and more brittle.  
> Some ruthenium complexes absorb light throughout the visible spectrum and are being actively researched in various, potential, solar energy technologies.

Noah smooths his hair and straightens his sweater as he walks through the great room. The curtains are already drawn back. Sunlight filtering through the dust casts a dreamlike haze over the room, warm and welcoming. 

Early evening light pours into the Evans-Bracken home, a hazy orange glow. No matter how often they clean or change the air filters, New Mexico finds its way in and hovers all around. Noah drops his keys and wallet on the side table. Though the clink of metal on blown glass is loud in the quiet, it is a familiar, comforting sound. The set up of the room, he notices, is familiar, comforting as well. Isobel has prepared. 

“Babe?” His hand flits over the knot of his tie, secure at the base of his throat, and he calls out to his wife again.

Pillar candles, tall and thick, adorn the end tables, much as they had the night before. A wide pillow sits on the hardwood floor at the foot of the armchair by the fireplace. Heat blooms low in Noah’s belly at the memory of kneeling beside Isobel; he imagines he can taste the wine they’d shared at dinner last night. A thrill races up his spine at the assumption he'll be leaning into her shins, waiting for his turn at her cup, again soon. 

_Finger foods_ , Noah thinks, amending the menu he has planned. 

Eating off of her fork had been something they’d tried in the past, but never while Noah was on his knees. The intimacy of it had soothed his anxieties, quieted the chaos left in the wake of Isobel’s frequent disappearances. Eating directly from Isobel’s hand would be new.

Just the thought of taking it a step further has Noah dizzy with anticipation, walking on a cloud.

“Is?” He calls from the bottom of the stairs. “Are you home?” 

The promises exchanged the night before, while Isobel’s hand held him by the nape of his neck, paired with the way the room remained laid out for a scene of the same, leaves Noah confident his wife is around. When he receives no response to his question, he understands she must be in the shower. It gives him plenty of time to make his way to the kitchen and start on their meal.

Noah is methodical in his preparation. Each knife stroke is precise as he slices vegetables for the stir fry. The pans are preheated, oil is hot, before anything goes in for the sautee. Cubed potatoes are boiled for the mash. 

The act of cooking is a meditation in its own right. Not as grounding as Isobel’s attention, but it is a task to please her all the same. Knowing she will partake in the meal, enjoy it, offer her delight in words of praise and touches of affection, brings added pleasure to Noah’s hobby. 

While Noah combined his ingredients for popover fillings, he lost himself in a daydream: Isobel floating down the staircase with her eyes only on him; her arms wrapping around him from behind, the soft press of her lips behind his ear; the vibration against his back as she hummed her satisfaction; the warmth of her breath against his neck as she whispered, “So good for me.”

The pots and pans are washed and Noah’s work emails are all answered by the time the mixture has reached room temperature. Isobel still hasn’t come down from the bedroom. 

It isn’t like her to take so long, but Noah finishes in the kitchen before he goes to check upstairs. He follows the recipe to the letter. Sheets of pastry dough are laid out, rolled, cut, and stuffed with spiced fillings. Then, into the oven they go and Noah is taking the stairs to the master bedroom by two.

The room is empty. 

Noah peers through the window down to the driveway with a frown. With a heavy heart and dragging feet, Noah heads back to the ground floor. Though he hates to admit it, he already knows he’ll find the garage empty as well.

**| Dinner’s ready. |** Noah’s text to Isobel may be passive aggressive, but it’s a lot kinder than he feels.

Isobel’s response comes less than a minute later. **| I’ll be on my way in a few. |**

Almost immediately Noah’s irritation is replaced by relief. Isobel is hearing him, valuing him; she is holding him in a place of importance, just as she continues to promise. Noah touches the knot at his neck and follows the line of it down his torso. Even under his sweater, feeling the raise of thin fabric reminds him that he is hers and she is his. 

While pulling the vegetarian turnovers out of the oven, Noah has a stroke of genius.

_Dipping sauces_. The fantasy of sucking spicy and sweet from Isobel's fingertips has him adjusting his belt with one hand and rushing through the recipe binder with the other. 

He hurries, wanting to have dinner laid out before Isobel gets in. He keens, knowing the delight she’ll derive from finding him already on his knees by her chair when she walks through the front door. 

It doesn’t take long to get the ingredients together and fill a tray of small bowls. The coffee table is set - table cloth, napkins, candles, wine, and food; everything is within easy reach. 

Heart pounding and mind racing, Noah stands at the edge of his pillow. He takes a deep, steadying breath; expels the air in a long, slow stream; and gracefully lowers himself to his knees. Palms flat on his thighs, he starts by sitting back on his heels. At the first sound of Isobel’s return, he will be ready to straighten up, clasp his hand over his wrist, and bow his head for her examination. He can’t help but count the minutes. After twenty - the average drive from Max’s to their home - Noah rises to attention.

 

After spending an hour on the pillow, Noah's kneecaps are crying out, his ankles are aching, his thighs are tight and quivering. He's scowling, no longer able to steel his expression. 

He places a hand on the floor as the other goes for the knot of his necktie. He’s ready to pull the damn thing off. Without Isobel there to remind him to breathe, to tell him that he is overreacting, Noah feels strangled. Without Isobel there to contrariwise validate his frustration, Noah feels like the air has been sucked from his lungs, from the room. Without Isobel there Noah feels untethered and lost, and no matter how tight the knot below his chin is tied, it won't make up for her absence. 

Noah brings himself to his feet, legs still shaking from holding the position too long. The walk to the staircase sends spikes of pain through his cramping calves. He doesn't pay much attention to the pins and needles in his feet. The discomfort tell him he's alive, that his blood is still pumping, that he is still breathing, and that's enough for now. 

Ignoring the platters he'd set out, Noah takes one last glance at the pillow by the chair. The gray-silver patterned tie comes into focus, a crumpled lump of silk on the cushion, cradled by the dimple left behind by his knees. 

Noah doesn’t bother with television or reading. He heads upstairs in the hopes that a hot shower will help to wash away the humiliation of having been spurned. When he crawls into the empty bed the sheets are cold against his scalded skin. Noah squeezes his eyes shut and begs for sleep.

 

The next day at work is a narrowly-missed disaster. Noah is a distracted mess. He reacts poorly to associates requesting his assistance and curses at the phone when it rings. His receptionist starts rescheduling clients even before Noah asks her to do it himself. Productivity is nil. He supposes going into the office has been better than staying home, but only by way of getting himself out of bed and on with his daily routine. 

Isobel’s fundraiser for the VA is tonight; Noah heads straight over after work.

Noah rides with the windows open and the stereo so loud it hurts his ears. But the wind cools the angry flush of his skin and the music drowns out the chaos of his mind. 

It works - it really does. By the time he’s pulling into the back of the lot, Noah’s thoughts are clearer; he can breathe easier. He opens another button at his collar to remind himself the sporadic sensation of his throat closing is all in head. He considers it could also be a passive aggressive attempt to make sure Isobel sees the tie has come off, but he doesn’t like to think he can be that vindictive.

Fingers wrapped tightly around the steering wheel, Noah hangs his head. A few deep breaths and a prayer he learned at Al-Anon are all he offers himself before goes in search of his wife.

Isobel is leaning in close to Michael when Noah finds her. 

Noah puts on a wide smile, surprised to find that the feeling that overwhelms him is relief and not anger. Realization hits him; it isn’t just disappointment or jealousy that has him reeling. Noah is hit with the sudden understanding that he suspects something _other_ going on with his wife. And seeing her with Michael, at the VA fundraiser she organized - where she is supposed to be - is a balm to his wounded soul.

“Michael Guerin at a town event,” he says to announce his arrival. Noah’s relief stutters when he sees that Michael’s shirt is half unbuttoned for God-only-knows what reason today. Noah doesn’t look closely. He knows if he pauses to look and finds an actual hickey on Michael’s chest he’ll throw a punch and start a fight he won’t win.

Michael has a reputation for womanizing, drinking, and brawling - three things Noah won’t ever stoop to challenge. Isobel had a mind of her own and free will to use it; if it is Michael with whom she chooses to spend her time… No, Noah won’t let himself dwell on that.

Isobel turns, excitement written all over her face. “Noah!” She takes his face in her hands and presses a quick kiss to his lips. It’s not enough of a distraction to pull Noah’s attention from the other man.

Noah’s eyes flit from her back to Michael as their friend explains what’s dragged him out of his hermitage. “Projector broke; I fixed it.” Michael sounds less than thrilled, but he greets Noah with a handshake and a return of the smile Noah has kept plastered on his face. 

“Oh, I could have…” Though the hulking machine looks much older and far more complicated than the small projector he has at home, Noah offers his help. 

Of course Noah wasn’t his wife’s first choice to fix the damn thing - not with Michael around. Noah _really_ has to refrain himself from looking for a mark on Michael’s chest; the jealousy churns his stomach with shame. 

No matter how much sense it makes to call on the mechanic-by-trade for help, Noah has to swallow the pain of an already bruised ego. “Yeah, yeah, good call.” He digs deep for the ‘attitude of gratitude’ they’re always preaching at Al-Anon meetings. “Thanks, bro.”

Isobel hangs off Noah’s arm as they watch Michael walk away. 

Noah holds his breath as Isobel runs her hand over his shoulder from behind. She turns him to face her and holds him, resting her hands on his upper arms. 

_Any moment_ , Noah thinks, _she’ll notice the lack of tie I’ve been dutifully wearing under her order. She’ll notice and she’ll know things aren’t okay._

But Isobel says nothing; she makes no indication the change in Noah’s attire fazes her in the least.

“You missed dinner last night.” Noah’s eyes burn with disappointment as he looks for an ounce of true care in his wife’s own. Unsure if he should tell her just how much she had been missed, Noah bites back the details.

“I know,” Isobel says apologetically. Her hands on his face are quicker than Noah thinks he deserves. She gives him a short kiss like she has other things on her mind, more important things to take care of. 

Noah struggles to push wild assumptions about Michael from his mind. He trusts him; he trusts _them_ ; he does. Even when Isobel spends night after night at his place, he trusts his wife to be faithful. He trusts Michael to keep her safe as a friend, a brother - nothing _more_. Noah repeats the thoughts again and again, until, finally, the reminders pacify him.

Isobel looks into Noah’s eyes like she’s assessing if she’s done enough to mollify him and the pain is like an arrow through Noah’s chest. 

“I’m sorry,” she says. Then she kisses him again before explaining. “It was Max. He had, uh,” Isobel doesn’t take her hands off of Noah, caressing his chest as she rolls her eyes, “girl problems.”

_Max. Of course._

Noah wants to roll his eyes too, but he’s afraid if he does that, the emotions he’s bottling up will rise and spill over in angry words and tears. He takes a moment for himself as he looks away from Isobel. When he looks back to her, his heart aches with wounded affection, disappointment at being stood up without so much as a text, and worry that he’ll never come close to being as important to her as the men she considers her brothers. 

Noah’s smile is soft and sad. “Yeah. Same.” 

“Seriously, baby, I’m sorry.”

“Mm-hm.” Noah wants to believe her. In the depths of his soul lies the yearning for her apologies to translate into a change of action. Her words have been empty, thus far.

Isobel sounds playful when she asks, “Hey, how about this?” And it’s not a mood Noah can match. Nonetheless, her fingers carding through his hair are soothing; if he was any less upset, Noah thinks he might cave to her games. “Why don’t we switch things up tonight? Hmm? What can I be for you?”

Isobel smooths her hands up and down Noah’s torso, shoulders to chest, and Noah recognizes his opening. He takes a breath before asking Isobel for what he desperately wants.

“Maybe tonight we could, both just be… present.”

Isobel’s expression softens at his request and she takes Noah’s face in her hands more carefully than before. Her hold on him is firm and deliberate, despite her gentle touch. 

The perfect fit of her lips against his own surprises Noah at first and he wonders how long it has been since she’s kissed him this deeply, this tenderly. It is not a placating gesture; the kiss feels complete: passionate, soulbare, honest, and committed. 

When the initial shock wears off, Noah feels like he is floating. He slides his hands around Isobel’s waist, anchoring himself to her, locking his fingers around his wrist at the small of her back and pulling her impossibly close. Any indecency in the public display of their affection be damned. 

Comfort and contentment take the place of Noah’s anxiety and anger. And there is love, so much love.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading :)


End file.
